by Emma Scott
Instead she asked, “Was it recent?”
“Almost a year and a half ago.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s really recent.” She let go of the tag and the heel of her hand settled on mine. A frozen, soundless moment, then her hand slid backward, palm to palm. Her fingers curled around mine and held still. I stared as my thumb came down on top of her knuckles and slowly moved back and forth.
The waitress came back with the orange-lipped, decaf pot. The look on her face was sour, until she saw our hands. She smiled as she topped up my cup.
“I’m sorry to hear all this,” Kacey said, when the waitress had moved on. She gave my fingers a final squeeze and let go.
I put my empty, bewildered hand in my lap. “So am I.”
Kacey toyed with her spoon. “Is it hard to talk about?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Only the people closest to me know.”
“And I’m the newcomer busting into your personal space and asking all kinds of questions.”
“Yes,” I said, “you are goddamn nosy.”
She squawked and chucked a French fry at me. I laughed and plucked it off my lap.
“Wait, shit! You can’t have that!” Kacey reached across the table to snatch it back. “I did not just almost scald myself over your damn coffee so you could eat a fry instead.”
“Your sacrifice is duly noted.” I crammed the whole thing in my mouth, and nearly groaned in ecstasy. I’d forgotten how good a fried potato could be. Salty, greasy perfection. “Holy god, that tastes good.”
Kacey moved her plate out of my reach. “That’s all you get, buddy. I’m not going to be responsible for breaking your diet. I’ve already broken the routine you keep talking about, right? I’m a bad influence on you…”
My laughter died and my smile froze. She was right. In the space of one lunch, Kacey had not only broken my diet, but she’d put a dent in my carefully-crafted routine. It wasn’t just taking up my time that could’ve been spent in the hot shop. It was this. Lunch. Easy laughter and sharing. Trusting one another with secrets. Fingers curled softly together…
This was a forbidden item on the menu.
This was bad for my heart.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and set it on the table.
“Yeah, speaking of my schedule,” I said. “I only have a few hours before I start my shift at A-1 and you have a show tonight. We should get you back to Summerlin.”
Kacey’s smile faded away and her chin tilted at my obvious change in demeanor. “Oh. Sure.” Her luminous light dimmed. “Ready whenever you are.”
I drove us back to my apartment so Kacey could retrieve her bustier and the remnants of her fishnet stockings. But when I pulled into the parking lot, she didn’t get out of the truck, only sat there, unmoving.
“Throw the stupid bustier away,” she said finally.
“You sure?”
“Let’s just keep going,” she said, but it sounded more like, Let’s get it over with.
I drove Kacey back to the Summerlin house in silence. I stopped the truck in the great circular driveway. Kacey climbed out of the truck and stood facing the house.
“I fucking hate Las Vegas,” she muttered so low I almost didn’t hear her. She turned to me, leaned into the passenger window. “Thanks for taking care of me last night.”
“No problem,” I said. Say something else. Say something better. But the words stuck in my throat.
“And thanks for paying for lunch. It was supposed to be my treat, but I had no money on me. Naturally.” She shook her head. “If you wait a sec, I’ll run up and get some cash.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I ate a French fry for the first time in a year. It was worth twenty bucks.”
She raised her eyes to mine. “Thanks for that, too.”
“What? Eating a fry?”
“For cheering me up. Every time I feel a little down, you make a joke to lift me up.”
I nodded like a mute idiot, not sure what would fall out of my mouth, a joke or the truth: making her laugh was like hitting a mini-jackpot.
She shuffled her feet. “Okay, well. I should get back.”
“Break a leg tonight,” I finally managed.
“I’ll be lucky if that’s all I break,” she said, with a weak laugh. She started to close the door then stopped. “Thanks for being a good guy, Jonah. There’s a shortage in the world.”
She shut the door and walked away, her pale hair glinting like spun glass in the sun. I watched her walk to the entrance—to make sure she got in okay, I told myself—waiting until she entered the dark confines of the house. It swallowed her up and the door shut behind her.
Without Kacey, my apartment felt airless and sealed. And silent. Had it always been this quiet? I went to the couch to fold up the afghan. Remnants of Kacey’s perfume wafted up and I nearly put the damn thing to my nose to inhale.
You do not have the time for this.
I had to rebuild my fortifications, re-forge the armor I needed to make it to October. I had to erase last night and this afternoon, bury it along with the memory of Kacey’s eyes when she smiled, or how her bare thigh in her short skirt tried to wake up a physical desire I had been denying still existed…
With a silent apology to my departed grandmother, I wadded up the blanket and tossed it in the closet. Then my desire and I took a very cold shower.
After, I stood in my silent kitchen, drinking the dregs of a disgusting protein shake that was no match for the French fry Kacey had pelted me with…
For fuck’s sake, get over it.
Dwelling on this woman or any woman was a waste of time. I wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of guy. I’d never been wired that way, and starting a relationship now was out of the question. Not with Kacey Dawson, not with anyone.
No more taking beautiful women home with you, or even to lunch. Not anymore.
I checked my phone: it was five o’clock on Saturday night and I was dressed for work. I had two texts from Theo and a voice message from my father, as per usual. Tomorrow I would spend all day at the hot shop, then have dinner with my family. Everything as it should be. My routine had been shaken a little, but remained intact.
On my way out the door, I scooped up Kacey’s bustier and torn fishnets, then chucked them in the dumpster in the parking lot.
“We now return to our regularly scheduled program.”
My boss, Harry Kelton, had been out when I returned the car from last night, but he was in this night. I suspected he wanted to reiterate—in person—that taking drunk girls home was not in my contract.
“Fletcher,” he said by way of greeting, and pulled my paperwork for the night from the mess on his desk. He tossed me a set of car keys. I caught them one-handed as I studied the night’s assignment under the flickering fluorescents, and gaped at what I read.
“Rapid Confession? Again?”
Kacey…
Harry laced his hands behind his head, round circles of sweat darkening his button-down under his arms. “Their manager specifically asked for you.”
“After last night?”
“I guess he forgave you,” Harry said. “Lucky thing too. It’s a good charter.”
I shook my head in frustration. “It’s not lucky if he’s pissed off and trying to screw me out of another tip.”
“You ditched them last night,” Harry said, leaning forward and jabbing a fat finger on the mess on his desk. “I’m lucky he hired—and paid for—another charter. It would’ve well been within his rights to cancel last night’s payment, never mind your tip.” He leaned back in his chair, making it creak. “Win-win for both of us, Fletcher. I keep his business and you get a second chance.”
“Boss…”
Harry turned that jabbing finger in my direction. “You’re my best driver, Jonah, but I’m none too happy about last night. Finish the job if you want to keep yours.”
I left Harry’s office in a daze, his words echoing in my head.
A second chance…
“Goddammit,” I muttered. I almost turned around to storm back into the office and tell Harry to forget it, someone else could take the charter. Except Harry was on the verge of firing me, and I couldn’t afford to lose my job.
I strode through the garage, past rows of black and white limousines, town cars, and sedans, bolstering myself.
I can be professional. I’ll do my job, and get through this night.
“Hey, Fletcher…”
I turned to see Kyle Porter, another driver, headed to his car.
“I heard you got the Rapid Confession gig. Twice, you lucky bastard. The guitar chick is fucking hot.”
I climbed behind the wheel of my black stretch and slammed the door. “Tell me about it.”
By six o’clock, I was back at the Summerlin residence, parked in the circular drive, waiting for the band to emerge. The sun had only begun to set, streaking the sky orange and purple on the western horizon. Normally, I’d have studied the play of light, thinking how I could recapture those colors in swirls of melted glass. But I was too distracted. What was I going to say to her? Make a joke? Make her smile and laugh? Or just play it cool. Keep to the routine…
“It’s you!”
I jerked out of my thoughts to see the band and their manager, bags in hand, nearly at the car. And Kacey…
She bounded up to me in leggings, ankle boots, and an oversize black T-shirt with Ziggy Stardust on the front. She’d piled her hair on top of her head in a messy knot, and her face was scrubbed free of makeup—lit up with a combination of joy and relief that sent my borrowed heart into a fit of rapid beats.
She planted her hands on her hips, giving me a playful, arch look. “Are you stalking me?”
Before I could reply, Jimmy Ray sidled up to Kacey and slung his arm around her. “So this is the heroic limo driver who took care of my girl last night. I hired him again, kitten, as a personal thank you.” He winked at me. “She’s a little handful, isn’t she?”
I’d seen pricks like this guy a million times during my six months as a limo driver in Vegas. I always treated them with detached courtesy. But Jimmy’s hand hovered over Kacey’s right breast and an urge to punch his smug face came over me like a tidal wave.
“Go on, get,” Jimmy said to Kacey. He unslung his arm and smacked her lightly on the ass to hustle her into the limo.
An embarrassed smile flickered over Kacey’s lips, and she didn’t look at me as she climbed in.
Jimmy Ray extended his hand to me, and I took it out of professional habit.
“All is forgiven, buddy.” He pulled me close. “I hope you had a good time with my girl last night, but we’re not going to make a habit out of it, yeah? Don’t wear out the goods.”
His hand oozed out of mine, leaving a hundred-dollar bill in my palm.
I crumpled the money into my fist as he climbed in the back. Only the threat of losing my job kept me from chucking it at his feet. I shut the limo door hard—a hair away from slamming it—and loaded the band’s bags into the trunk.
Once behind the wheel, my eyes itched to find Kacey in the rearview mirror, but the partition went up, muffling the sounds of loud talk and laughter. I pulled out of Summerlin and drove to the Strip, already glittering in the falling twilight.
Just east of the Flamingo, near the convention center, I veered off the boulevard and maneuvered my stretch to the rear parking lot of the Pony Club, just as I had the night before. I opened doors and unloaded the bags one by one, just like the night before. But now I was acutely conscious of Kacey behind me, waiting her turn. She came last, and I turned to hand off her bag. Her eyes were cerulean blue and made electric by the dingy amber light of the streetlamp that flickered on above us.
“So Jimmy requested you personally,” she said quietly, as the others filed in the back door.
“He did.”
“I hope he wasn’t a dick to you. He can be…”
“Dickish?”
“Yeah. But he’s a good manager.”
I shut the trunk. “That’s all that matters.”
One of the band members, a girl with blue and black hair, poked her head out of the back door. “Kace?”
“Coming.” Kacey called over her shoulder. “That’s Lola, my best friend. She got me into this band. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably be on the streets. I can’t let her down, you know?”
She sounded like she was trying to work herself up to do something frightening. My instinct was to comfort her or protect her, but from what? How?
“Can I help?” I blurted.
“Will you be here after the show?” she asked, her face open and hopeful, a sad smile at its center.
“Yeah, Kacey. I’ll be here,” I said gently. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. She shuffled her feet, not quite meeting my eyes. “There’s talk of a party after at Summerlin. A ton of people are coming…the guys from our opening act. You should come. I mean, if you want. If you’re allowed.”
I wasn’t. We weren’t permitted to socialize with our fares, but the desire to protect her was fierce and neither company policy nor my stringent rules about the routine could change that.
Her friend, Lola, emerged from the back door again. “Kacey. You can’t make us late again, sweetie. I’m serious.”
“I gotta go.” Kacey reached out and squeezed my hand. “I’ll see you after?”
She hurried to join her band, and I tried to imagine this girl playing electric guitar on stage in front of a screaming audience. She seemed ready to crack in two, and aside from her friend with the two-tone hair, it seemed like she had not one fucking person in the world to help hold her together.
I wiped my hand on my uniform pants pocket as if I could wipe away her touch and the feelings that came with it, but I could still feel her soft skin against mine.
I slid behind the wheel to wait out the show. The line of limos behind mine grew, and I’d bet Trevor was among them, still not having learned to take off his damn jacket while waiting in the heat.
Unlike last night’s monotony, I spent this night with my nerves jangling, hoping Kacey was okay, and being pissed at myself for caring. Every muffled swell of the crowd made me flinch and I half-expected Hugo to bust out of the back door with her in his arms again.
After two hours, my nervousness settled into a dull pang in the pit of my stomach. A homeless man shuffled up to me, asking me for some spare change. I handed him the crumpled one-hundred-dollar bill Jimmy Ray had given me. The homeless man’s eyes were wreathed in a bone-deep weariness. They widened as he offered me a gap-toothed smile of profound relief before slinking back into the night.
Best hundred bucks I ever spent.
It was close to eleven when the show ended. Through the alley that led to the street, I saw a stream of concert-goers file out. I put my jacket back on and waited at the limo door for the band to emerge.
An hour later, I was still waiting, sweating in my jacket like a Trevor.
Finally the door burst open, out staggered Rapid Confession and the guys from their opening act. All of them drunk and loud and laughing with a post-show high. I searched for Kacey. She was in her concert outfit now: skin-tight black leather pants, and a low-cut black halter-top that revealed a valley of smooth skin between the soft curve of her breasts. Tattoos on her arms were stark against her pale skin, her hair was still piled messily on her head, tendrils falling loose to frame her face.
Kacey looked worn out from the show—sweaty and disheveled and drunk. The drummer from the opener had an arm slung around her neck. They both staggered and weaved. As Kacey climbed none-too-gracefully into the limo, her eyes met mine, glazed with liquor. She flashed me a watery smile before disappearing inside.
Jimmy and the other band’s manager crammed in last, without a glance my way. I shut the door behind them, bottling up the cacophony of laughter and loud talk.
On the drive to Summerlin, my eyes kept straying to the rear view mirror and twice
I barely avoided rear-ending the car in front of me. But as long as the partition was down, I kept trying to catch a glimpse of Kacey, to make sure she was all right.
Why do you care? She’s a rock star. This is what they do.
But I did care. She’d drunk herself into oblivion last night and gotten almost as wasted again tonight. She told me at lunch today she was scared, but of what? The party scene? Or something more? And why, in the space of twenty-four hours, had her fears become so important to me?
I screeched into the circular drive of the pink palace in Summerlin. This time lights were blazing in every window. When I opened the passenger door, a great tangle of staggering bodies and laughter spilled out. I hazarded a guess the limo mini-bar was raided down to the ice cubes.
The drummer from the opening act was all over Kacey, and as the group moved toward the house, I watched her try to shove him away.
“Get off,” she said, and staggered back. The guy laughed and said something I couldn’t hear. He went at her again, an arm snaking around her waist to yank her to him.
“No,” she said, her voice muffled against the guy’s chest as he pinned her close. His head bent, mouth on her neck and his other hand sliding down to her breast. “Ryan… Stop…”
“Hey!” Kacey’s friend Lola pulled away from her guy and started wobbling toward Kacey to help.
I was faster.
I grabbed the drummer by his shoulder and shoved him off Kacey so hard, he tripped on his heels and landed on his ass.
“She said stop, asshole,” I said. The drummer scrambled to his feet, his expression morphing from confusion to shock to anger. I stared him down, and when Kacey fell into me, her face buried against my jacket, my arm went around her.
“Who the fuck are you?” The drummer’s lip curled in a sneer. “The driver…”
“Okay, okay,” Jimmy Ray said, moving between us. “Let’s all calm down. We’re all friends here…”